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Authors: Susan Abulhawa
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Jewish army of Poles, Austrians, Germans, French, Brits, Italians, Russians, Ukrainians, Iranians, and others marched into Jerusalem, demolishing neighborhoods of non-Jews. It was a shocking moment that split the world in two: those cheering and those crying.
Palestinians cried, but tears always dry up or turn into something else. Eventually, the abnormal was normalized, and the constant brutality of Israeli soldiers became the cost of living. People persevered, and they fought back, too.
Nazmiyeh’s legs were still paralyzed when she gave birth to her eleventh son, provoking chatter that reverberated throughout the camp and entrenched Namiyeh’s reputation of mastery in matters of the marital bed. Women recalled how her husband had abandoned his entire family for her sake. How he had never looked at other women in that way, much less taken a second wife as some men had. Even now, when Nazmiyeh could not move her legs, she and Atiyeh had found a way to conceive another child. The women of the camp were mesmerized by the questions they dared not ask. How did she do it? They tried to imagine the mechanical details, and more women now sought her counsel in the particulars of intimacy and adventures of the flesh.
Although most women considered it good fortune to have borne so many sons in succession, Nazmiyeh was devastated by childbirth and her inability to bear the daughter she had promised to name Alwan. She cried when the midwife announced that she had borne another boy. Her womb felt tattered. Her legs felt nothing at all. Her heart ached to see Mariam as she put the newborn at her breast to suckle. She exhaled the exhaustion of the years and began to speak to her unseen sister while the midwife, accustomed now to her friend’s peculiar postpartum monologues, boiled the placenta for the curative broth that she sold as treatment for various ailments ranging from influenza to sterility. Nazmiyeh’s fertile womb had been a source of good revenue for the midwife, for it was thought to be supremely blessed.
“Oh, Mariam. Do you see, my sister?” Nazmiyeh spoke to the ether. “What shall I do now? I may not survive another one. My teats have not been dry in nearly twenty years.” No one understood why Nazmiyeh’s legs had stopped working, nor how they just as mysteriously walked again. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Stories and explanations abounded, only adding to Nazmiyeh’s intrigue and legend.
EIGHTEEN
Destiny was redeemed in Teta Nazmiyeh’s twelfth and final pregnancy, from which my mother, Alwan, was at last born. It was the same year that my great-khalo Mamdouh called from Kuwait to tell her that his family would soon be moving to Amreeka. To “North Carolina,” he said. My teta didn’t know where that was, only that it was farther away from her. One of her sons was already engaged and planning to move to Saudi Arabia for work. Rather than returning and regrouping, family were leaving and dispersing. She thought Palestine was scattering farther away at the same time that Israel was moving closer. They confiscated the hills and assembled Jewish-only settler colonies on the most fertile soil. They uprooted indigenous songs, and planted lies in the ground to grow a new story.
Nazmiyeh held her precious jewel to her breast, Alwan, the promised child. “She’s here, Mariam! She finally arrived, little sister,” Nazmiyeh mumbled during the delivery while the midwife collected the placenta and cleaned up the space. As they did with each newborn, Nazmiyeh and Atiyeh lay together, counting the fingers and toes, looking for birthmarks and committing to memory the inconsequential details in another milestone of love.
“Now that we have Alwan, we’re not having sex anymore,” Nazmiyeh declared.
Atiyeh gave a smirk, unfazed. “That’s what you say now. We both know you can’t live without it,” he said. “Besides, what will you say to all the ladies coming to you for advice? Your abstinence
Palestinians cried, but tears always dry up or turn into something else. Eventually, the abnormal was normalized, and the constant brutality of Israeli soldiers became the cost of living. People persevered, and they fought back, too.
Nazmiyeh’s legs were still paralyzed when she gave birth to her eleventh son, provoking chatter that reverberated throughout the camp and entrenched Namiyeh’s reputation of mastery in matters of the marital bed. Women recalled how her husband had abandoned his entire family for her sake. How he had never looked at other women in that way, much less taken a second wife as some men had. Even now, when Nazmiyeh could not move her legs, she and Atiyeh had found a way to conceive another child. The women of the camp were mesmerized by the questions they dared not ask. How did she do it? They tried to imagine the mechanical details, and more women now sought her counsel in the particulars of intimacy and adventures of the flesh.
Although most women considered it good fortune to have borne so many sons in succession, Nazmiyeh was devastated by childbirth and her inability to bear the daughter she had promised to name Alwan. She cried when the midwife announced that she had borne another boy. Her womb felt tattered. Her legs felt nothing at all. Her heart ached to see Mariam as she put the newborn at her breast to suckle. She exhaled the exhaustion of the years and began to speak to her unseen sister while the midwife, accustomed now to her friend’s peculiar postpartum monologues, boiled the placenta for the curative broth that she sold as treatment for various ailments ranging from influenza to sterility. Nazmiyeh’s fertile womb had been a source of good revenue for the midwife, for it was thought to be supremely blessed.
“Oh, Mariam. Do you see, my sister?” Nazmiyeh spoke to the ether. “What shall I do now? I may not survive another one. My teats have not been dry in nearly twenty years.” No one understood why Nazmiyeh’s legs had stopped working, nor how they just as mysteriously walked again. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Stories and explanations abounded, only adding to Nazmiyeh’s intrigue and legend.
EIGHTEEN
Destiny was redeemed in Teta Nazmiyeh’s twelfth and final pregnancy, from which my mother, Alwan, was at last born. It was the same year that my great-khalo Mamdouh called from Kuwait to tell her that his family would soon be moving to Amreeka. To “North Carolina,” he said. My teta didn’t know where that was, only that it was farther away from her. One of her sons was already engaged and planning to move to Saudi Arabia for work. Rather than returning and regrouping, family were leaving and dispersing. She thought Palestine was scattering farther away at the same time that Israel was moving closer. They confiscated the hills and assembled Jewish-only settler colonies on the most fertile soil. They uprooted indigenous songs, and planted lies in the ground to grow a new story.
Nazmiyeh held her precious jewel to her breast, Alwan, the promised child. “She’s here, Mariam! She finally arrived, little sister,” Nazmiyeh mumbled during the delivery while the midwife collected the placenta and cleaned up the space. As they did with each newborn, Nazmiyeh and Atiyeh lay together, counting the fingers and toes, looking for birthmarks and committing to memory the inconsequential details in another milestone of love.
“Now that we have Alwan, we’re not having sex anymore,” Nazmiyeh declared.
Atiyeh gave a smirk, unfazed. “That’s what you say now. We both know you can’t live without it,” he said. “Besides, what will you say to all the ladies coming to you for advice? Your abstinence
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